I will never stop loving you
by HarryPForever
Summary: Phil dies, and Dan is left alone and mourning in the flat. Cry.


You read about the tragic stories all the time, don't you? Little kids, teenagers, people with futures. Killed by cancer, just like that. One moment and they're gone and you see their faces staring out of the papers and the TV screen. You see the adverts on TV asking for money for research, or for nurses to help people in their dying moments. You see it all, and you don't think too much about it because you are the lucky ones. You are the people living between the lines of newspaper print, and because it doesn't happen to you it doesn't feel real. You never think it will happen to you; until one day, it does.

I try my best to remember you as you were before. Smiling, laughing, cuddling your soft teddies, meowing like a cat. I try my best not to see the images of you on the hospital bed, shrunken and faded, tubes everywhere. I try not to see you attempt to smile and then wince in pain. I try not to see you dying every time I close my eyes, but as hard as I try, I see it all.

The flat still smells of you, Phil. Your half used bottle of strawberry shower gel is still sitting on the bath tub. Your 'Lion' cereal is still in the cupboard. Your laptop still sits on your desk. Your lion is sitting on the end of your bed, waiting for you to come back and film a video with him. Your coat is still hanging on the hook and your shoes are still by the door. Your toothbrush is still in the bathroom. I can shut my eyes, Phil, in the worst moments, and pretend that because everything is still here waiting for you that you will come back. I can pretend, momentarily, that you are just at Starbucks. That life hasn't altered in the slightest. All of your things are still here, Phil, waiting for you to return to them. And I sit here too and wait with them.

I lied to you, on the last day. We both knew that you were on your last breaths; the feeling of death was in the air. You could barely breathe, and each time you did you wheezed and spluttered. I lay on the bed next to you – it was a single bed, but you were so thin that we both fit. I hadn't left the hospital for days. They knew you were dying too, and they didn't have the heart to make me miss your last hours. My arms were around you, and your hand was loosely holding mine. Loose, because you didn't have the energy for anything else.

You cried and I wiped away your tears, and I told you not to be afraid. I told you that you were wonderful, and amazing, and that you should just keep fighting. Empty words, into an empty room. We both knew that the fight was all but over; we both knew they'd done everything they could to save you, but it wasn't enough. But it helped me, to say those words. My blind hope. I wished for some kind of miracle to save you, and I think until the last moment, I really believed that it would.

"Promise me," you whispered through dry and broken lips. "Promise me that you'll be okay. Promise me."

"I promise," I lied and I kissed your lips softly. I couldn't refuse you that, could I? I couldn't let you die worried. And I know that if you'd been yourself, you would have known I was lying. Because how, in all the world, was I going to be okay, Phil? It was a stupid thing to ask of me; an impossible task. And I lied to you, and I'm sorry Phil, but I'm not okay. And I don't think I ever will be again.

I dream about you. Your face haunts the furthest recesses of my dreams. Sometimes they are good dreams. I remember when we kissed for the first time, at the top of the Manchester eye. I remember that time we read terrifying fanfictions that people had written about us, and collapsed into hysterical laughter. I remember when you first said you loved me. I remember when I told you that I loved you back. I remember how we used to wear each other's underwear, because it was less obvious than t-shirts when the Phans started noticing. I remember how we used to go for walks in the middle of the night, holding hands. I remember it all, Phil. Every kiss, every touch, every memory. But the good dreams are a curse as well as a blessing, because I wake up reaching out for you, believing in my sleepy state that you are lying next to me in the bed. And my fingers meet the coldness of the empty mattress and I remember that you are not here and it rips me apart.

And sometimes, the dreams are nightmares and I remember the bad things too. I remember the fateful day when you told me that your stomach hurt. I remember all of the doctor's appointments. And then, I remember that small office which was too warm and those words hanging in the heavy air. _I'm so sorry. It's cancer._ And the last memory I have, the image that will stay with me forever. I remember you, shutting your eyes for the last time. And I remember the words you said with your final dying breath. _Daniel Howell, I will love you forever._ With a shaky voice, I said to you _I will never stop loving you_. And then, you were gone. Forever.

I can hardly go on the internet anymore, because everywhere I look there are fans mourning for you. And I understand that they are sad and that they too need to mourn. But something in their sadness makes me angry; something in their pain isn't real enough. They did not know you. They did not spend every day with you and they did not love you in the way that I did._ In the way that I still do_. I am angry with them because they say that they are crying for you, and I know that maybe they shed a few tears, but what is that in comparison to me, crying until my muscles ache and my eyes are sore and raw? I feel as if their grief is superficial and borrowed, and I am angry with them because I know that their grief will fade eventually. And mine will not. There is just too much that time isn't going to heal, or erase for me. And I hate them; I hate them because they have the ability to forget you. And you should never be forgotten.

The pain is everywhere, Phil. I spend most days curled up crying and screaming and I know it's not healthy or normal, but I don't know what else to do. I have to remind myself to eat, to sleep, to drink. To breathe. When I'm not curled up, I watch your videos. I watch your face move, I look at your cute smile, I look at the light in your brilliant blue eyes. I pretend that because you are moving and talking and breathing on my screen, you must be in real life too. I stare at your chest, at it moving up and down. Breathing. And I hug the screen to my chest, and I wish you were here with me. Sometimes I ring your phone and I listen to your answerphone. I listen to your jaunty, happy voice and I can almost imagine you are next to me, talking in my ear like you used to.

You had the eyes of an angel, so I'm sure you fit in well up there. Maybe they needed you for something, but didn't they realise that I needed you too?

Every day, it gets harder. Don't they say that time heals everything? I don't think it does. It's getting worse. And I sit at the window in the dead of night, and I talk to the stars, imagining they are you. There's one star that is brighter than the rest – that's you, Phil. The brightest star in my sky. I wrap my arms around myself, wearing your green and red checked shirt, and I breathe in your scent. I wear your shirt as if it is your arms around me. I torture myself with it, but I cannot stop myself. I need to know that you existed once, and that you were here. I need to imagine that if you were here, you'd be holding me.

Maybe one day I will be able to look back at my memories of you and not cry. Maybe one day I will be okay. But I don't hold out much hope.


End file.
